We're Not a Taylor Swift Love Song
by GeishaGirl93
Summary: Kentucky summers have two moods: brutal and hellish. Tim Gutterson/Raylan Givens


Disclaimer: I don't own Justified.  
A/N: I've fallen in love with this series and thought it was about time I wrote some fanfiction for it; considering, you know, it's one of the first television shows about MY HOME STATE! Yeah, this show and me have a deadly romance going. Maybe a sequel? Let's just see what happens. In case you guys haven't noticed, I'm HORRIBLE at keeping my promises when it comes to sequels.

Title: We're Not a Taylor Swift Love Song  
Summary: Kentucky summers have two moods: brutal and hellish.  
Pairing(s): Tim Gutterson/Raylan Givens  
Warning(s): slash, curse words, car sex, reference to child neglect, PWP . . . yeah, I think I've got it covered.

Xxx

Springs in Kentucky last for about two weeks before summer kicks spring in the ass and settles in—curls up like a cat and starts purring, lazy and content to sleep and hang around despite the dogs and poisoned cat food. You can be a resident of Kentucky all your life until your bones in the ground, but you'll _never _get used to the heat.

Raylan's car has no air conditioning, which is either karma being a bitch or Raylan having no money to fix it. More than likely it's both. Tim is sweating and sipping on a Coke bottle as wet as his back; the drink went flat two minutes ago, but it's still cold enough to offer a little relief. He offers it to Raylan who waves him away with a limp hand.

Tim blinks at him, droplets of salty body fluid clinging to his eyelashes and giving everything a pearl-coated effect. "No," he says, "seriously? No, I don't believe you. How are you not frying in your own juices right now?"

Raylan look at Tim out of the corner of his eye. He's lounging in the driver's seat, that stupid hat tipped down over his eyes giving him some kind of outlaw-badass persona. His fingers are laced across his belly, the digits slick with sweat. His suit is dark and makes his dark eyes shine, and his matching undershirt is darkened by sweat and running cologne. The car is overflowing with the smell of leaking testosterone, the cheap deodorant off a Kroger shelf and Raylan's cologne.

It makes Tim hard, that smell that's all Raylan, but the heat and lukewarm coke make it's exhausting trying to maintain it so Tim lets it slip away, ignores the burning in his belly and his half-hard cock because he's sweating and gross and he will _not _have sex with his colleague-turned-secret-boyfriend when Tim feels like his skin is melting off.

Raylan's smiling like he knows, and yeah, why wouldn't he? "When you got a man like Arlo for your dad," Raylan says and his voice is rough from lack of substantial liquid and maybe because he's a little hard too (but Tim's only guessing), "you get used to this kind of heat. Whenever he'd go to that vet bar, I'd bounce a ball. Arlo didn't care how hot or cold it was, just told me to wait outside and play with that ball."

"Must've been lonely," Tim says around the mouth of his coke.

Raylan shrugs, "You get used to it. Sweated so much when I was a kid it doesn't bother me now."

"One good thing Arlo taught you, right?"

Raylan's still smiling, laughs a little—a small hiccup of a sound that's more scoff than laughter. "I suppose."

Silence should come after a conversation like that, but the car engine is humming; the air conditioner is choking and spluttering, and Tim keeps coughing because his throat can't seem to stay wet enough.

"Hotter than Satan's asshole," Tim mutters. "Couldn't wait for a cooler day for a stakeout?"

"Art's feeling vengeful," Raylan offers as a weak explanation. "I pissed him off one to many times, I guess."

"Oh? And what did I do to deserve sitting this?"

Raylan turns to look at Tim's face and says, "You were in his line of fire. It could've been anyone, but you were in the way."

"In short, I'm collateral?"

"Seems that way, Timmy-boy."

Tim's face wrinkles. "Please, don't ever call me that again."

Raylan laughs—warm husky, almost a real one but not quite, still broken by that scoff-hiccup. He takes his hat off, and his hair is shiny with moose that smells like worn leather and sweat. It mixes real good with the cologne smell, and Tim's feeling hard all over again.

"Christ," he mutters and drains his bottle. Raylan's still looking at him, and there's something in his expression that could be the urge to screw, but Tim shakes his head and says, "No, no way in hell Raylan. We're not having sex in this car."

"No," Raylan agrees but he's reaching across the shift to touch Tim's thigh, and Tim can feel the sweat through his jeans. "No, we're not."

"Then what're you doing?" Raylan's expression is one of forced innocence, and it doesn't look right on his face. It looks like the muscles in his cheeks and jaw are seizing up and solidifying; his eyes are a bit too wide and too bright; his teeth toothpaste-ad white and perfect in a way that makes Tim run his tongue over each one when they kiss. Tim cringes at the expression saying, "Don't look at me like that, Jesus. You look like a fucking psycho."

The expression melts a little, and Raylan is smiling for real. He's the kind of handsome that makes girls wet and Tim's heart flutter and seize like it's been caught in a trap. Raylan doesn't have any pictures of Arlo in his youth for Tim to compare to, but Tim gets the feeling that only a small percent of it is Arlo and a majority of it belongs to Frances. But since Tim's never seen any pictures of her either, he's just doing guesswork at this point.

"You're getting that look on your face," Raylan says and squeezes Tim's thigh so that Tim can feel his fingers through his jeans.

"What look?" Tim asks and he's feeling a little breathless and sweating a lot more than he was before.

"The look you get when you're thinking too hard."

Tim laughs and Raylan's hand inches up until his knuckle brushes the back of Tim's crotch. Tim tips his head back and sighs when he feels his dick twitch in his pants.

"It's too hot, Raylan," Tim tries to sound annoyed, but even he can hear the surrender in his voice; it's the kind of surrender that comes along when you're feeling _just_ horny enough not to care about how you're feeling at the moment and just want someone's hands on you.

Raylan hums low in his throat and runs his knuckle up and down the seam of Tim's pants. It's a lazy motion meant to get Tim going, not enough pressure but hard enough to get Tim's dick raising and throbbing. Tim's head rolls against the headrest; and he and Raylan stare at each other in a way that communicates everything and nothing. One hand grabs onto Raylan's wrist but he doesn't push it away, just holds it; the other comes to the door handle and armrest, closest to the door and grips it. The cover is soft and damp beneath Tim's fingers, and it rubs against his fingers.

"God," Tim laughs, "we're living the dream, aren't we?"

Raylan raises an eyebrow at him, his expression question enough.

"Sitting in a car that's hotter than any hell I've ever heard of; you've got your hand on my dick, and we're in the middle of one of the—if not _the_ seediest trailer parks I've ever seen in my entire life. This is fucking country song material. You know, back when country was still good and not turning into that pop shit."

Raylan's smile is roguish and bordering on feral—all teeth and pulled back lips. Most people would think Raylan is sneering (or off his goddamn rocker) but Tim isn't most people. Raylan's hand flips over to cup Tim and palm him through a layer of denim and faded boxers (that are inside out from their hasty, alcohol fueled romp from late last night). Tim purses his lips but moans anyway, the sound rumbling up from his belly and spreading through his chest.

"You talk too much," Raylan's voice is low but he's not whispering. He's quiet enough for the noise to be drowned out by passing cars.

"Fucking hate you," Tim says but he's breathless in a way that feels good and gets his blood running faster in the highways of his veins. "I hate you so much."

"No," Raylan says, "you don't."

Tim's next moan is his agreement, and his back arches a little when Raylan's thumb rubs over the swollen head of his dick.

"How wet are you?" Raylan asks.

Tim's eyes flutter open, and they're dark like bourbon in a shot glass. His smile is unhinged, like it could fall off his face at any moment, and it does when Raylan squeezes him again—hard enough to make his mouth flatten into a tight line and for his breath to whistle through his teeth.

Tim doesn't open his eyes but the challenge is in his voice when he says, "Find out for yourself, asshole."

Tim's button pops open and his zipper lets out a tiny shriek as Raylan slides it down. Tim's hand is still on Raylan's wrist when he wedges down into the open v of Tim's past and underneath stretched elastic. Tim's hard but not hard enough that it hurts yet. Raylan grips him tight, and his hands are spotted with callouses that rub against Tim's slick cock and scratches it in a way that makes Tim curse and his hips hitch upwards into Raylan's fist.

"Yeah," Tim murmurs and his hips are lurching in a rhythm that's unsteady in the best kind of way. "Yeah, just like that."

The last thing Tim sees before he closes his eyes is Raylan's glowing like they belong in the skulls of a rabid thing on four legs and Raylan palming his own cock through his black jeans.

Tim isn't loud during sex, and he's trying real hard not to be loud now. The seat is moaning beneath him as he jerks his hips in time with Raylan's pulls, and he's sweating so much he feels like he could drown in it. He's squeezing the armrest so that he doesn't squeeze Raylan's wrist, and the material keens beneath his fist like he's causing it pain.

"_Harder_," Tim grinds out through his clenched teeth. "Come on, Raylan, didn't know your age was getting to you."

That makes Raylan chuckle dark and deep like syrup and he's stroking Tim so hard it's making Tim see stars behind his eyelids. He's moving his hips in a way that he's only seen in pornos and shitty adult movies, languid and somehow rapid enough to be compared to a well-oiled piston. Raylan makes Tim come when he runs his hand down to rub at the patch of skin right behind Tim's balls with the knuckle of his middle finger, and Tim arches up until he feels like he's going to snap in half and the world goes white like a postcard Christmas.

It takes a minute for Tim to feel steady enough for him to open his eyes. He feels loose in a good way, and it feels like his bones are made up of tuning forks—a soft ringing moving through is bones like an echo. His heart stutters and thuds until it cools down just like Tim's sweat. His thighs are sticky and smeared with congealing come, and he's going to have to take a shower and change before they report back to Art because God-willing Art sees the stain on his crotch or smells Raylan on him.

When Tim opens his eyes, his hands are trembling in a way that only Raylan would notice, and Raylan's unbuckling his pants and pulling himself out with a motion that's controlled and fluid.

Tim laughs saying, "What makes you think I'm going to return the favor?"

Raylan answers without missing a beat, "Because you're already drooling."

Raylan's thighs are wet enough so that his jeans are stained with kidney-bean shaped puddles of sweat, and his skin smells like musk and salt and running something-or-other that isn't lotion or cologne. He's got his fingers threaded through Tim's hair, and he doesn't pull—just sort of strokes him in way that's gentle and forceful at the same time. His curses are as fluid as his movements, Tim's name falling from his lips in a way that makes Tim think of the sweet burn of moonshine. Tim wants to look up and see his expression, but Raylan's got the kind of dick that makes you salivate until you can't help but drool, and Tim's a little busy with his hands—one wrapped around Raylan's ankle while the other fondles his balls in a way that makes Raylan buck and groan low.

"_Fuck_," Raylan curses and his hips twitch and spasm as he fights for control. "_Fucking hell_, Tim."

And that's the last thing Raylan says before he's tensing up tight like he does right before he fires his gun and coming down Tim's throat. Tim swallows because Raylan would kill him if he makes a mess in his car, tracing the rivulets of thick sperm with a careful tongue.

There has to be a song out there somewhere about this, there _has_ to be. There has to be a song about some good old country girl with perfect hair who loves to wear sundresses giving her boyfriend head in his jacked up car. If not, there should be because it's perfect in a way that only makes sense in Kentucky.

Neither one of them says nothing, just breathes and comes down from the high that you only get after you've had good sex. Raylan's got his hand on Tim's knee, holding but not stroking—like he just wants to make sure Tim's real; and Tim's got his hand gripping at Raylan's bicep hard enough so that his knuckles turn white.

"Shit," Raylan's breathless, "_shit_."

Tim says, "Yeah." It's all he can think of to say.

Raylan rolls his head onto his shoulder, and somehow that hat hasn't moved an inch. He looks like he wants to kiss Tim but opts to say, "We're better than any goddamn country song."

Tim smiles and laughs; he wants to kiss Raylan but opts for smacking him instead. It feels like the right thing to do.

The guy never shows up, and it should be disappointing, but it isn't-not by a long shot. Raylan and Tim go back to Tim's place because it's closest. They shower together and fall into the bed a tangle of sunburn limbs and wet, open-mouthed kisses on creases and frown lines. Tim's bedroom is dark but broken by small shafts of light that manage to slip through the curtain. It feels nice, like he's home. Raylan wraps his arms around him, and Tim slips into darkness without really falling asleep.

"Tim?" Raylan's voice is slurred with sleep, and Tim answers with a mumbled _hmm_. "I'm going to stick around for a while."

Tim smiles against his damp pillow and says, "I'm going to hold you to that Raylan Givens."

Tim should know better; the Givens aren't exactly known for keeping their promises, but he has to hold on to something. They both fall asleep breathing easy and dreamless.


End file.
